


Rapture, Rupture

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belonging, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 11:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21178475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: SPOILERS for 15X03 - After Castiel stands up to Dean’s anger and misplaced blame and ultimately leaves the bunker feeling used, useless, and that no one truly cares, he seeks out the reader in order to feel a little less alone.





	Rapture, Rupture

“Jesus, Cas!” The sight of the angel standing on your front stoop when you swing the door open to confront the intruder who woke you with his midnight pacing on the porch, the loosely folded fingers held up in a fist protruding from his sleeve dithering between doubt of disturbing you and knocking on the door, has you jumping out of your skin and slamming a hand to your heart to keep it from bounding out into the night.

It’s been awhile since you headed out on your own, a while since you last stared into the startling (and currently startled) blue of his gaze. On first blush, you aren’t sure if he looks apologetic, or if that’s just his usual expression dewy from the light drizzle of rain dampening the darkness beyond the reach of the porch lamp.

He tucks his hands into his pockets, lets his eyes fall from your face to the softly flowing flannel robe, belt loosened so that the fabric plunges and parts between breasts covered by a thin cotton tank and your trembling fingers. His focus further follows the hem tracing downward from there to float the hidden curves of your hips.

It’s there, swinging in your free grip, he spots the sawed off shot gun and your well-worn go bag brimming with gear ripped open on the floor beyond - these, the hunting accoutrements you supposedly gave up when you left the life. 

You don’t appear any less vibrant to him than when he dropped you off at this very door half a year ago and bid you ‘Goodbye’ because leaving is what you said you wanted - what you believed was right for you and who was he to protest what you thought was right by bringing his feelings into light when it was clear to him you would be safer here; safer, and happier.

“Cas-” You rein in the gravitational fall of his uncharacteristically open appreciation of your scantily clad form back to the general orbit of your searching eyes. You notice when he lifts his chin, the wet gathered on his lashes seems too freshly gravid with sorrow to have anything to do with the weather- “what happened? What’s wrong?” The concern catches in your throat, cauterizes the corners of eyes with tears.

“It’s-” his voice cracks with a weight of emotion that tells you what comes next is a lie- “nothing.”

It’s not like him to lie. Not to you. You might have left the boys, left the bunker and, figuring their angel was a Team Free Will package deal, didn’t try to persuade him to join you, but you and Cas, you have an understanding you can say anything to each other; even if you haven’t been able to unpack the extent of the fondness fostered in your hearts, it’s only because you each thought it best not to further complicate the complicated nature of this life by introducing love and upping the ante of fear and loss.

You’d all lost too much already to risk bringing love into the equation.

You click the safety on the shotgun and toss in on top of the yawning duffel inside the door. Stepping sideways, you usher him in to your humble abode with a sweep of the arm. “Come in, let’s get you dry and then you can tell to me some more about nothing.”

“You’re busy-” he shuffles a single boot forward; eyes flicking to your sleep-mussed hair, he wants to enter, but hesitates- “sleeping. I’ll come back in the morning.”

“I’m awake-” leaning over the threshold you haul him in by his coat lapels muttering- “now get your angelic ass in here.”

He allows you to lug him limply inside.

Slipping your fingertips under the coat’s collar, standing near enough to study his averted blues as you do so - the red rims, the hollowness sunk below, the uncharacteristic paleness of his flesh as if someone had drained the life out of him tells you all you need to know - it’s not what happened or what’s wrong, it’s who failed him, and what isn’t right. You’ve seen him like this before, and your heart aches in echo of his anguish.

Trying not to let the fact you’re pissed off at the douche with a capital D who hurt him roughen your touch, you push up and liberate the trench from his shoulders.

“Hey-” you gently cup a palm to his jaw, rub your thumb over the scratch of stubble there until he meets your eyes- “it’s just like old times, huh? You and me free to do whatever the hell we want with no Winchesters around to keep us in line.”

Not that you ever did anything beyond share a bed and bowl of popcorn while watching Netflix.

The smallest of smiles twitches his mouth at the memory. He relished those nights with you, watching you as you slept, the bunker silent save for the reassuring rhythm of your heart and breath.

“There’s my angel.” You flash your teeth in approval at the subtle sign of relief banishing some of the fretfulness from his features. You prod the pad of your thumb in the divot of his chin. “I’d make you some coffee, but I wasn’t expecting the company. I think there’s tea though-”

You twist to gambol off in the direction of the kitchen. The firm wrap of fingers encircling your wrist staves your momentum. You turn back to him, brow furrowed.

“It’s okay, I’m fine-” he slackens his grip- “I just came to talk.”

He follows the arched invitation of your glance toward a cozy living space and sits on the sofa.

You settle in beside him, drawing your feet beneath you and letting your bent legs spill into his lap.

His regard wanders the room to walls hung with cheery landscape paintings, to brightly colored throw pillows, to shelves lined with favored books and mementos, and to a scattering of photographs on the mantel, one of you two taken outside a motel in Indiana that also happened to be home to the World’s Largest Slinky displayed prominently front and center.

“It’s nice here. Peaceful,” he says; sighing long and low, he lets the atmosphere - and your proximity - cast a soothing shroud over the struggle of these last weeks. “It reminds me very much of your room. I mean, the room you used to … the room you used at the bunker. Only brighter.” Continuing to avoid the topic of why he’s here, he rambles on, “I would assume it’s brighter because of the windows … or it would be if it were daytime.”

After a self-conscious moment spent drowning the swell of further small talk he lays a warm hand on your knee, observes the way your skin blanches then reblooms redder beneath the weight of it.

The touch is intimate, but not unprecedented. He took his time becoming comfortable with when and how to show physical affection. With you it came easier than with others; and the connection he feels - the solid heat of flesh and bone and soul - blunts the sting of emptiness encroaching on his heart.

You cover his hand with your own. Leaning forward, you swipe a stray chestnut curl behind the shell of his ear. A wistful smile quirks your lips. “I don’t think you came here to comment on my choice of decor.”

He half-turns his head to peer at you, the gloss of his blues shine as a desolate sea in the dim lamplight. “I left.”

You tease your fingers through his and squeeze tight, encouraging him to go on.

The crux of the struggle - the piece of it that crushes him most - surges in deeply graveled syllables. “Dean is angry. I’ve never seen him like this. I tried so many times to reach him, and it’s clear no matter what it once meant, or what it still means to me, our friendship has become just another burden for him to bear.”

Your fingers tense; venting annoyance forces a sharp snort through your nose - this infuriatingly big-hearted idiot of an angel is still considering Dean’s feelings, and not his own, as the priority.

And Dean. You’re done making excuses for Dean! You get his anger. You get that it’s a defense mechanism, that he’s damaged and it’s a way for him to cope when he feels everything around him spiraling out of control. The anger is how he keeps moving; adrenaline lubricates his joints in the face of paralyzing fear.

Except anger isn’t an excuse to treat your family like shit. You’re all angry. You don’t all redirect that rage at the world and lash out at your loved ones and look for someone to blame when life hurts. It’s a huge part of why you left. You were sick and tired of watching Dean hurl his fists at the people who had his back, especially the angel.

You grasp at straws. Sam has always been able to temper his brother’s rage, to make amends. “What about Sam? Does he-”

“No. I made a choice. An impulse decision to kill a demon who betrayed us before something worse rose up to threaten the world. I forced Sam to make a sacrifice he shouldn’t have had to make. I can’t ask him to go up against Dean for my sake. He’s already lost so much. They have each other. That’s enough.” His chin swings like a the slowly stalling pendulum of a clock wanting winding.

“Cas, you’ve lost too. If you did what you thought was right, I trust you had no other choice.”

The seraph stills, Dean’s wrath having worked at him, raised clouds of doubt, and fueled the fire of regret set aflame in his consciousness into a smoldering sentiment of failure during the hours long drive to your door that made him second guess himself and actually begin to believe the blame belonged solely to him. “But I did. I could’ve walked away. We could have figured it out afterward. Together, like Dean said.”

“Like Dean said!” You lurch to your feet, shouting the statement through clenched teeth, first at the ceiling, then down at an angel awe struck by your outburst on his account, “And when did Dean become dictator? How many more lives would’ve been lost? How much more sacrifice? You did what had to be done. What any of us would’ve done with our backs against the wall.”

“Y/N-” wide-eyed and earnest, he reaches out to clasp your wrist; what little strength remains of his failing grace collects into fingertips endeavoring to calm you- “That’s kind of you to say, but-”

“No ‘buts,’ I’m not saying it to be kind. It’s true.” You recognize the electric pulse of angelic power tracing in tendrils along your veins from where he grips you. It has the pacifying affect he intended - your ire toward Dean incrementally dulls with every heartbeat.

His grasp goes lax as his grace weakens and ebbs. He returns the hand to his lap and looks at it resting uselessly beside the other. “I’m tired. Tired of fighting for the people I love only to fight with them when all is said and done.” His gaze lifts, earnestly piercing yours seeking the an answer. “What kind of life is that?”

Stooping, you frame his face with your fingers, splayed tips stretching to tickle his temples. “It’s just … life. It’s not fair. It never was and it never will be. We just have to keep going and hope for the best.”

Blues swirling in resignation snap shut.

“I know they’re just words, Cas,” you apologize for the disappointingly oracular answer.

“Regardless, I appreciate you saying them. I needed to hear it.” He flattens his hands over your smaller ones to peel them from his scruffy aspect. Lashes parting, he pauses, not for the first time, to squint at the lines and scars paving the palms and place the bare caress of a kiss upon each. He’s grateful to find the landscape of them isn’t altered; and after everything he’s been through, they are, perhaps, a pair he is less willing relinquish so easily this time without exploring to what ends those trails of fate lead.

The lingering of the look and tender devotion paid does not go unnoticed by you. “You could’ve called if that’s all the comfort you needed. What else do you need, angel?”

He continues to hold on; his focus shifts to your legs where your robe gapes to reveal a slope of thigh capped in a crescent of pink lace panty. There lies the promise of a passion he never felt worthy of acting on, and yet, he has heard your prayers - the walls against angelic perception erected by humans exist as barriers nearly as thin as that lace, and more permeable.

The oppressive pain of loneliness throttling his vessel’s racing heart craves connection. He squashes the impure thoughts through sheer will and self-deprecation at entertaining the possibility. “It’s stupid. Selfish.”

“You’re the least selfish person I know.” You shift so your knees knock against his, near enough that the still raised hands holding yours skim the supple flesh of your lower belly. “Tell me.”

“I just needed someone to-” the temptation to take the comfort you offer and the very scent of you overwhelms his senses; he starts, stops, and starts again- “need someone to-”

You slink your fingers through the halo of his hair and cup his jaw to compel his gaze - a blue blown almost to black by longing and seeped in tears - upward, “Someone to what, Cas?”

“Show me I meant something,” he sobs; lunging for your hips, he yanks you into his lap.

You straddle him with a small bounce, knees hitting the cushions as your lips crash; he silences the surprised squeak rising the rungs of your ribs to escape with the scrape of his tongue along the moist seam of your mouth. He’s already hard beneath you and here you half-thought he was diving in for a hug.

Frantic fingers rip at the thin cotton of your tank, unburdening the supple shape of breasts to bury his nose between and lay a smattering of sloppy open-mouthed kisses and Enochian praise upon the expanse of skin and upward to your neck.

He tears, too, at the fragile lace of your undies to expose the apex of your arousal. Threading a finger into your heat, he tests and teases at the walls fluttering around it in hunt for friction and fullness - the pike of calloused pleasure cultivates that coil of ecstasy from his caresses already coalescing in your belly.

A growl rattles the room as you fumble to free his belt and fly to return the favor. He lifts his hips to help you push down his pants; his vessel shudders when your fingers collar his cock through the material. The growl evolves into a groan of your name as you delve, finally, into the unfettered trove of his trousers to uncage him.

Kneading handfuls of your ass through the robe, he rocks against your soaked sex until you rise up on your knees, grip him by the base, and sink slowly onto him.

You roll with one another in rapture. As the desperation to unite gives way to a slow sensual swaying of bodies, small sighs moisten skin between kisses, and a sense of belonging - of being needed, and being exactly where you need to be - builds in so comforting a cadence, not of carnality, but of love, that neither of you hastens toward the rupturing of that bliss.


End file.
